Making the Line Safe
by Uncle Charlie
Summary: There's one spot in UNCLE HQ where even Napoleon and Illya have to toe the line. A Working Stiffs story


I don't care what anyone else says, I have the most important job in all of UNCLE. The big boys in Section One think they're calling the shots, but they're wrong. They're nothing without me. The Section Two and Three boys and girls, our 'rock stars,' if you will, at least to their way of thinking - they ain't worth squat without me. I keep them safe, I keep them focused and I keep them in the game. Without me, they might as well be blowing soap bubbles at the bad guys. You see, I run the range and let's be real, in the end - it's all about the weapons.

I started shooting almost before I could walk and knew that wherever life led me, it would include firearms. In the Marines, I was a sharpshooter until my unit got hold of a bad weapon shipment. I had the receiver of an M-14903 come apart in my face, costing me an eye and ending my shooting career. Or so I thought. I was lying in a Seoul hospital bed, feeling butt ass sorry for myself, when an old man approached me with a job offer. True, I couldn't really shoot – at least not all that well - but I could teach, so that's what I did. I joined UNCLE and found a home, taking green agents and making them, if need be, efficient killing machines. Mind you, I'm not advocating mindless or senseless violence, but if someone is shooting at you, you need to know how to shoot back and do it well.

Every agent has to re-qualify at least once a month and the senior agents, hell, they'll do it daily given the chance and the ammunition. That's pretty much how they got to be senior agents. They were willing to put in the time and the practice to hone their skills.

The one who really worried me initially, though, was the Russian. He came walking in, looking like a good breeze would knock him down, picked up an unfamiliar rifle and promptly outshot everyone on the range. That's when I realized what Nickie Khrushchev had sent us. We asked for a Soviet representative, he sent us a frigging assassin. That's when we all got scared about what we had and started wondering how we were going to control him.

I don't know who thought it would make sense to partner him with our other renegade. The stories that followed Solo out of Korea… well, they were something else. They were so big, so impossible to believe I was sure I'd caught him, only to have the facts verified by a reliable source. Everything you heard about him was true, as hard as that was to believe. On the surface, he was polished, easy going, soft spoken, and confident. Scratch that and underneath he was just as unpredictable as the Russian and just as dangerous. Guess the higher ups decided maybe they'd keep each other in check and they were right. The partnership, which we all thought was doomed from the start, blossomed and those two became the best UNCLE had to offer.

Of course, that doesn't stop the rivalry between them. Solo had held the top range score before Kuryakin came along and those two battled over it regularly, swapping it back and forth so many times even I needed a score card to keep up. Competition wasn't just a word for those two; it was a way of life.

It had been one of those frigging Mondays. I'd had my hands full trying to keep a half dozen baby Section Twos from shooting themselves in the foot or, worse, each other. The return mechanism on the targets was sluggish, which meant I was in for a long night of cleaning it, and my head hurt. Even with the protective headgear, I had a headache the size of all outdoors. I just wanted to pop my eye out, pour a big glass of bourbon, and be done with the whole day. And of course, who decided that it was then they needed to re-qualify? The Golden Boys. It was just what I needed to make it a perfect day.

All the agents have ambidexterity training and Kuryakin had his right hand in a splint. Still, even off handed he could out shoot anyone on the firing line, with the exception of his partner. Solo, on the other hand, looked like someone had taken a meat hammer to his face. One of his eyes is patched, making his look a little roguish and he moved real carefully, like everything hurt, but he was determined not to let anybody know it

"Gentlemen," I said as they walked in. I had the feeling neither of them should have been out of Medical, but until they broke a rule, I couldn't really kick them out.

"Simon, how are you today?" Solo asked, like he really cared. He was one of the few people who called me by my Christian name and not my nickname.

"Can't complain."

"That good?"

"No, just no one listens, so why bother? You two here to re-qualify?"

"In his dreams," Kuryakin muttered, already reaching for a pair of ear protectors. "That would mean he'd have to stop walking into walls."

"I told you I was sorry about that," Solo snapped and I grimaced. When these two start in at each other, it's not a good thing. "I didn't trip you on purpose."

"Tell that to my wrist. You cost me another week of desk work." Kuryakin walked up to a position and awkwardly pulled his weapon with his splinted hand. He wasn't going to be shooting with that hand anytime soon, I could tell. He switched the Walther to his left hand, dropped the clip, and pulled the slide back to show me that he didn't have a round chambered. Then he handed me the pistol. One thing I have to say for both him and his partner, they take good care of their weapons. The Walther was clean and smelled of gun oil. I examined it, nodded and handed it back. Solo repeated the whole procedure as Kuryakin was collecting some clips.

Kuryakin practiced with a dozen clips before he was much satisfied and this was with his own weapon. Say what you will, he knew what he was doing. Solo was a bit more conservative. He'd only shoot off a couple clips before he got down to business.

They knew what they were doing and I didn't pay them much mind. I had a new Section Two who'd been nursing an injured hand. In spite of my demonstration and constant reminders, he wouldn't correct his grip on the new Walthers and the slide action had ripped his thumb up pretty bad. He'd been off the line for a few days until the stitches came out and would have to play catch up.

I was reviewing his targets with him when I realized the range had gotten oddly quiet, save for two weapons being fired almost simultaneously. I half smiled to myself and walked over to where the newbies had clustered, watching their seniors. Solo and Kuryakin were in a world of their own and I could hear the junior agents chatter amongst themselves.

"Solo's going to wipe the floor with him." Swanky was an up-and-coming Section Two boy. If he could keep himself alive, he might just make a decent agent.

"Are you kidding? With Kuryakin's record? No way. The man's a legend in his own right." Duncan had an attitude as big as all outdoors and I was just itching to take him down a few pegs… constructively, of course.

"Put your money where your mouth is. Five says Solo beats him"

"Ten says it's Kuryakin."

The group looked over at me and Swanky grinned. "How about you, Buck? What do you say?"

"I say I learned never to take a sucker bet when I can't even guess the end and there's absolutely no way to predict this outcome. I don't make so much money as I can throw it away." I was hoping that would give them the idea that betting on these two wasn't a good idea.

"Are you kidding, Buck?" Swanky pointed. "Kuryakin is having to shoot left handed…" Then the kid sighed. "And he's still outshooting me." At least he could see the forest for the trees and admit he needed improvement.

"But Solo is half blind. Anyone can out-shoot a one-eyed…" Duncan became aware of just how far he'd put his foot in.

"No, go ahead, Duncan," I urged him softly. "Finish what you were going to say."

"Nothing, I… nothing."

For their part, the partners had no idea of the anxiety building around them. They were in the zone and nothing existed for them except their pistol and the target. Kuryakin was, no surprise, favoring his bad hand and at one point tightened the splint for better support. He still winced each time the recoil kicked and even two handed, he was pulling to the left.

Solo's shots were going wide, when they were usually tightly clustered. His face was gray and ech time he fired, I could see a muscle twitch in his jaw, but he still continued to concentrate on the target, forcing himself to think to work through the pain. Still, either one is better than the best I'd seen that day. Of course, they would have to be to still be alive after all this time.

The newbies watched, transfixed as these two agonizingly put themselves through their paces. They are focused, they are intent and they are certifiably insane, at least in my opinion. Neither of them would be able to move in an hour. Kuryakin would be lucky if he passed Medical, even next week , thanks to this. Solo, they'd be carrying him home on a board that night. And yet they kept shooting, long past when common sense would have stopped a normal man.

And I let them. By rights, I should have pulled them off and sent them packing, but this was a learning experience for their underlings. These guys were seeing first hand exactly what it took to make it as an agent and live to tell the tale. Focus, determination and a sense of self-disregard to the point of collapse.

Finally, it's over, at least to my way of thinking.

"Make the line safe." They're in the middle of their run and both agents stopped automatically, dropping their weapons to point at the floor and wait. They know better than to argue with me. They do that, I kick them off the range, and they don't qualify. They don't qualify, they're tied to their desks and these two will do anything to avoid paperwork.

I took the targets and examined them, then shook my head. "Sorry, guys, dead heat this time."

"One clip, best takes it." Solo said, looking at Kuryakin who shrugged.

"Why not? If you want to live dangerously, my friend, who am I to discourage you? But I'm not shooting with this." He started to take off the wrist brace and I shook my head.

"No can do, buckaroo. You take that off, I invalidate your score." Solo was grinning like a maniac as he reached to flip up his eye patch. "Same for you, Solo." The smile disappeared. "Now the two of you get the hell out of here before I call Medical and tell them what you've been up to. I'm figuring this wasn't on their list of approved activities for the pair of you."

They got somber and both handed me their weapons. They're blazing hot, probably even too hot for the newbies to handle, but my hands, like theirs, are tough. I hand them back and both men swapped out full clips and holstered the Walthers.

"Next week, I dust the floor with you," Solo muttered and Kuryakin just smirked.

"Again, you are dreaming. Or at least talking in your sleep, as you are wont to do." He started to walk away, slowing his step in order for a now limping Solo to keep up with him. "Chinese, French, Italian…?"

"Greek," Solo replied.

"With your stomach in that condition? Are you out of your mind?"

"Probably, but when has that stopped either of us? Come over after, and I'll clean that for you." He thumped Kuryakin's left side, and then they were gone.

Swanky stared after them. "What was that all about?"

Duncan shrugged his shoulders. "Beats the hell out of me. So who won?"

"Dunno. But did you see the look on Kuryakin's face, there toward the end? His wrist had to be hurting something awful." Swanky shuddered.

I grinned as I watched the two leave, wondering just what Sam Hill they were scheming. "I have a feeling that, as usual, they both did." I pointed to a work table. "Clean your weapons so as I can go home." I'd come in early tomorrow and clean the return. Right now, I was feeling like a long cold drink and maybe a little Thai myself…


End file.
